


Mortal Son

by dreamkist



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Inner Dialogue, M/M, POV First Person, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 00:07:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17032503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamkist/pseuds/dreamkist
Summary: The ritual of purification requires sacrifice.  After years of penance, Charles comes back to life.





	Mortal Son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salazarastark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salazarastark/gifts).



> _Old English_ life _(dative lif) "existence, lifetime, way of life, condition of being a living thing, opposite of death.”_

❦

This pile of books is in the wrong spot. I fidget and try to restrain myself from moving them again. I never used to be so nervous. I might need an ice-cream soda. An important guest is coming. I haven’t had a guest in a long time. I have come many miles, many years, from my previous life. I think I have had many lives. There was the life before, the one with happiness and light. There was the life after, when the poison began to seep in. There was life irreconcilable. What life am I in now?

I push those thoughts to their place in the back of my mind. I survey my small apartment again. I try to collect interesting things I find around the island, whether in shops or encountered when I’m out and about. I always had a touch of the magpie about me.

I stand up and inspect my reflection in the harsh light of day. I have lines on my face now. My hair seems to have darkened. I wear trousers and a sweater. The sweater is white. The affectations of youth seem pointless now, but some things _should_ stay the same. I'm an angel fallen from grace.

I move the stack of books to another table.

☙

Hospitals are terrible places. Every time I survived a stay in one I told myself it might be time to change, it might be my last chance. The dreadful fluorescent lights, the hue of banana bags, the sickness—all would coalesce to make me feel even worse.

"Are you going to be good this time?" the nurse asked me the last time.

"I'll do my best," I replied with a grin.

She wouldn’t have been surprised to see me again. They never were.

But I went back to my filthy apartment. My girlfriend was gone. She took the tv and the car. I surveyed the detritus of my existence and I knew that I was ready. Proper flagellation had been called for. Was my purification, venerable goddesses, complete?

I was 10 years old when I had my first taste of whiskey. A cold, wet day in December and one of the uncles handed me a glass. It was some miserable family gathering. "This will take the edge off, son," he said. I didn't like the way it burned going down but once its sweet warmth began to spread through my body I quickly changed my opinion.

It wasn't long before I realized I didn’t have to hide it from my family. For them, every occasion called for a drink. I was happy to partake of the tradition. Funerals, weddings, holidays, making it through the week—or the day. Someone would have a drink and someone would give me one.

A smile, a coy tilt of the head. I'm not unaware of my charms. Life is sweet to the sweet. Or so I remember my mother saying. I think she was sweet. We stopped talking about her after she was gone. Memories of her are faded and uncertain. I remember the powder she used and the way her hair curled around her face. She made sure we were her perfect children.

We went to church dressed like little dolls. We knelt before the Lord. Took the cup of blessing to our lips and swallowed dry wafers. Two children like a reflection. Father, forgive me. I didn't mean to sin.

Our parents died and we were shuffled to our grandmother. She took care of us well enough, but there was always a detachment. Lost in the big world and our big pain, Camilla and I held onto each other tighter.

Camilla and I were practicing piano. We were 14. She was playing a jaunty tune. The diminuendo left us alone in silence. She laughed at some mistake I had made in her cheerfully mean way and went to play another song. Anger burned through me and without conscious thought I tried to crush her hand in mine. Her gasp of pain made me realize what I had done. I released her hand from my cruel grasp. She stared at me with wide, welling eyes and I felt regret. I always felt regret. But that shouldn't suggest the regret ever stopped me from losing my temper in the future.

I always knew the reflection was off. If you looked the right way, at the right angle, in the right light, you could see the differences. We were never all that alike. Except for our predilection for sin. Another early lesson learned: when you maintain the appearance of normality only those rare few who care to can see the truth.

College was a fun, new diversion for us. We continued our classics education, but more interesting were our new friends. We never had friends before. These companions were able to entertain ideas that most people would refuse to consider. I miss Francis and his neurotic-yet-gentle ways. Richard, he is the least tainted of us all. I know he wouldn’t believe that, but it’s true. Henry, forever an enigma, I even miss him sometimes too. Then there is Bunny.

I try not to think about it. What we did. It was like we were playing the grandest game. After the first incident, it was no longer a game for me. But Francis and Henry appeared to be fine with it, and Camilla was having a great time. I can never describe how much anguish I have for my part in Bunny’s death.

One night, during a drunken vagary that did nothing to bury my guilt, I found myself at Richard’s door. He was half asleep when I knocked. He let me in. We sat on his bed and I couldn’t find the words to express all the things I felt. The turmoil that was consuming me. I let my weary head rest on his shoulder and he was kind enough to wrap an arm around my back. There was heat coming from his body and it was good to be so near him. I didn’t think about it, only blindly turned to find his lips, seeking out more contact. It was a relief when he didn’t push me away. We fell onto the bed and moved in frantic rhythm.

I don't think he remembered that night. I know I wasn’t the only one who was using at that time. Or, perhaps, he only pretended to not remember.

“Dulcissimus Charles,” he said that night, in the dark, when I held onto him and ground down against him. I buried my face in his neck and he whispered the words in my ear.

I could never forget. It was a numinous balm when I most needed it.

Bunny’s murder tore all of us apart. As it should have. We were never the same. I still regret how my relationship with Camilla went. I suspect she will never speak to me again and I deserve that. I only hope she held on to some fragment of that unstained child I knew so long ago.

Those days were a fever dream and only now, years later, am I truly awakening.

❧

After an interminable amount of time trying to suppress my nerves, with the past assailing me, there is a knock on the door. My guest is here. I take a deep breath and open the door. Richard, old friend, here in front of me. The past threatens to overwhelm me when I look at his familiar visage. I dumbly stare at him as though I wasn’t expecting him. Manners completely forgotten.

“There's something odd going on out here. People are dressed like Victorians,” he says to break the silence.

Grateful that he spoke, I find my voice, “Ah, Dickens on the Strand. I really have no idea what that’s about.” 

“Makes perfect sense,” he laughs.

And I’m relieved because it isn't uncomfortable. It’s as easy as it used to be. “Come in,” I say, the evening air has a bite to it. “One year I was almost taken out by a rolling mattress. Stumbling into the middle of a Victorian bed race was perhaps some sort of sign.” As I say it, I hope it isn’t too soon to allude to the past.

“A harrowing experience,” he says agreeably.

“Indeed.” I show him in and help put his luggage away in the spare room. We sit down to have tea. “I’m afraid this is the hardest beverage for me these days,” I say as I pour. I watch his eyes trip around the room.

“I’m glad you’re doing well, Charles. I truly am.” He gives me a sincere look that makes me feel warm all over.

“Thank you. It’s been a long road. I wasn’t sure I would make it.”

“I’m glad you did and I’m glad you wrote to me,” he takes his cup.

“I’m glad you wrote back,” I sip my tea to hide my face after that insipid statement.

“Did you write to the others?”

“No,” I hesitate.

“I haven’t heard from them in a while,” he says.

“Well, shall we talk about it?” I bite the bullet and ask. “No point trying to avoid it.”

“We don’t have to,” he sets his cup down and sits straighter.

“Yes, we do. We never properly talked before. None of us.”

“That’s true. I wonder how it all would have gone if I had said any number of things,” he has a far off look in his eye that I know well.

"You were always in your own head," I smile as he comes back to the present.

“I was a bit self-obsessed, at the time,” he agrees.

“Well, I was an idiot and fool. So many things never should have happened,” I don’t have to rehash them all for him.

“I think about it every day.”

I nod, “I tore myself apart. It felt necessary.” Oh, hell. I’m being too honest. 

“I understand,” he says and it’s far too kind.

“I shot you.” Damn mouth, stop running.

Richard looks slightly stricken, “Charles, it's ok.”

“No,” I interrupt, “It's not. I could have killed you.”

“You were aiming for Henry.” The name still sits heavy in the room, a curse upon us. I wouldn’t be surprised if he appeared, called into being by the saying of his name.

When the chill passes I ask, “Was I? After all this time I'm not sure who I wanted to hurt. I knew Henry was a monster, but I heard you on the phone, my only ally, betraying me. Richard, what if I meant to shoot you?”

Richard shakes his head and moves to the edge of his seat. He takes my hand and says, “That's not you, Charles. That was never you.”

Through tear-filled eyes I look at him. I can tell he believes those words. He rubs small, soothing circles on my wrist and leans close.

“Dulcissimus Charles,” he whispers into my hair after pressing a kiss to my temple.

So he does remember. I pull myself together.

I stand and hold my hand out to him. He takes it and I silently lead him to my bed and we hold each other. It’s a sweet intimacy. I sleep more deeply than I have in a long time. A rest and solace I thought I would never experience again.

When we wake up, lying on our sides to face each other, he looks unsure. The only thing I’m sure about is that I don't want him to leave. I want him to stay for more than two days. I don't want to show my desperation for him, but maybe a small bit of desperation would make him stay. “You have the look in your eyes. The look that says it's time to run.” Please don’t run, I silently pray. Please.

“Yes,” he agrees. “But not from here, not because of you. I don’t know where my life is going. I don't know what I'm doing, Charles.”

“I’m certain none of us know what we’re doing.”

“When I read your first letter, I thought maybe this would be the answer.”

“It could be the answer. Why don’t you stay here?” I ask but I know he won’t. The six of us are eternally just out of each other’s reach. We are destined to be both too close and too far.

“Ok.”

It takes me a moment to understand. I was prepared for the disappointment. Instead, hope flares up bright and burning. I see the same emotion written across his face. He’s beautiful and I want to see him like this for the rest of my life.

Fate can be changed, in the asking and the answering. I will cherish this gift, whether I’m deserving or not. For now there is life.

❦


End file.
